Gifting
by renrenren3
Summary: Sansa has a present for Sandor.


**Author's Note:** Re-posting all my old ASOIAF fic from my other account. This is embarrassingly old, it was written in 2008. I wrote this for a friend who asked for Sandor/Sansa. Set in a future AU in which she's lady of Winterfell.

-x-

It was the heart of winter and snow piled in great mounds in the yard and against the windows. But inside the castle walls fires roared in braziers and chimneys, warming the air along with the breaths of several hundred people getting ready for a huge feast.

Sansa walked the corridors briskly, holding a shawl tight around her for warmth. However she had a feeling that her shaking was due to nervousness more than cold. A couple of servants called out to her but she was in no mood to pay them attention. She sent them to her steward and continued through the corridors at a quicker pace hoping to avoid any further disturbances.

In truth she usually liked to organize feasts, and this one was more special than usual since many lords would make the journey to Winterfell just to give her their respects. But before she could devote herself completely to the decorations, there was something she had to make sure of.

Climbing one last set of stairs she emerged, red-faced and slightly out of breath, in the corridor over the armory. A new armory, and a new corridor. Everything was new, for that matter, since the Winterfell she'd known in her childhood days had long since turned into a bile of ashes and rubble. A new castle stood on those ruins now, built with gold that almost nobody knew how she'd found, and along with it she'd brought north her new household.

In particular, her new master at arms occupied the room at the end of this corridor. She approached the door hesitantly, straining her ears to try and divine whether he was in there. He probably was, for she could hear loud footsteps coming from inside.

She braced herself and knocked twice. Timidly at first, then with more insistence as she got no reply.

"Ser," she called eventually. "It is me. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

The footsteps didn't stop, but she heard a grunt and took it for acceptance. She pushed the door, which wasn't locked and easily swung inside.

Sandor Clegane looked at her with the same frown she'd always known him to wear. The war hadn't been kind to him, adding several scars that weren't readily visible but made his movements difficult. He limped towards her, a mug of wine in one hand and a doublet in the other.

"My lady of Winterfell," he said, tossing her the doublet. "This is just as well. Your maids are growing careless, leaving some lordling's clothes in my room."

She caught the garment, but the sudden movement made her lose her balance and her own shawl slipped from her shoulders and onto the floor. Flustered, she bent to pick up everything. Sandor didn't help her, but she wasn't expecting him to. He seemed to be in a terribly fierce mood, even worse than usual.

"You're mistaken, ser," she said, neatly folding the doublet and holding it out for Sandor. "Those clothes are meant for you. A small present, as it were, for your services." He made no motion to take the clothes, nor did he reply, and Sansa grew more hesitant with each word she spoke. "I hope they fit you... If not, I'm sure they can be adjusted..."

Sandor groaned and took a swig of wine. "That's just like you," he said eventually, stopping even his feeble pretense of respect and staring straight at her. "Services? I'm simply showing a bunch of oafs which part of a sword is the pointed one. It's the only thing a wreck like me can do."

She stared back forcing herself not to flinch. She'd grown accustomed to the scars after all this time, but something in his eyes always made it hard to match his gaze.

"You're a good master at arms," Sansa said. "Is it so bad, wanting to give you a gift as a homage to your skills?"

Sandor grunted again. "Those clothes are more suited to a lord than to a master at arms," he said. He brought the cup to his lips again, and set it down with a frown after noticing that it was empty. Sansa hoped that he wouldn't pour another one. She hadn't seen him drunk ever since they'd returned to Winterfell, and would have hated to see it happen now.

"You don't want my gift?" she asked in a small voice. She wished he'd take the doublet already, so she could lower her arms.

"Hn. I didn't say that."

Finally, and Sansa thanked the Seven for that, Sandor resolved to bend down and take the proffered clothes from her hands. He unfolded it and stared at it for quite some time.

"Do you like it?" Sansa asked, rather hesitantly.

Sandor laughed, and she hung her head. Even though she'd expected this kind of reaction, it still was disappointing to see that in this regard he hadn't changed at all.

"It's pretty," Sandor said. "Just like you, little bird. Pretty and useless, and only good to be stared at." She blushed at those words, embarrassed at being called like that. But somehow it sounded better than when he said 'my lady'.

"Tell me," Sandor continued. "Should I wear these clothes while I go about my duties, or when I go riding? Or maybe I could just stare at them and be reminded of you."

Her blush deepened in front of his insolent smile. "I was rather hoping that you'd wear them to tonight's feast," Sansa said. She smiled inwardly, for it seemed that she'd finally managed to surprise him.

"My usual clothes are good enough for that," he replied gruffly, but she had expected this remark.

"They're not," Sansa blurted out. "Because you'll be dancing with me and must look your best."

She immediately wished to take back her words, for he stared at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a pair of antlers.

Before she could recover enough to say anything he started laughing, so loudly that it seemed everyone in the castle would hear. He collapsed on a chair, slapping his hand on his tight.

She stood by him, uneasily, but now that she'd said it there was no going back.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said eventually. "So that's why? You want me to dress as... as a fucking lord. And dance with the lady of Winterfell."

"That's so," Sansa said meekly. "You don't want to dance with me?"

He snorted. "A funny sight it will be, me trying to dance with this leg. And even if you could miraculously heal me, the only dance I know is the one you dance with steel in your hands."

"And even so?" Sansa matched his gaze. "Over half of the pompous lords who will attend can't dance either. And they can't even properly hold a sword."

She slowly put her hand over his and sighed. "So, please, don't be jealous any more."

He turned his head sharply, but she spoke before he could say anything. "I know," she said. "I've seen you skulking these past weeks, avoiding me during meals and looking askance at each and every new guest that arrived at the castle."

He didn't reply at that, turning his head away from her.

"I heard rumors among the stable boys," he said in a faraway voice. "I heard that you were going to remarry."

"I thought so," Sansa replied. "Sometimes you're terribly stupid. But easy to figure out." She couldn't see his expression, but she knew he was smiling.

"I'll see you tonight," she said, turning to leave. "Remember to wear your new clothes."

Just before closing the door she heard a grunt that was probably agreement.

It was only after Sansa had walked down the stairs that she allowed herself to grin widely and spin around like a little girl. Then, regaining her composure, she set to her work of overseeing the preparations.


End file.
